


Sugar

by MAVLOTOV



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, Reader-Insert, Smoking, Stabdad AU, i decided to edit it into reader insert, this started out as shameless self insert but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MAVLOTOV/pseuds/MAVLOTOV
Summary: The bar is just as garish. A high shelf, lit with multi-colored bulbs and stocked with such a disgusting amount of liquor that even he swore he could blush. Polished stone counter top... he rolls his eyes at the surely real gold accents.And then there's you.
Relationships: Spades Slick/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

It starts out innocuous enough. 

Slick agrees, although begrudgingly, assuring the much taller man that he will complain the entire time, to give Droog's favorite watering hole a try. He hates fancy joints, and insists that knowing everyone in the building thinks they're better than him grinds his gears. Among other things. Really, he rambles for so long that his reasoning gets more and more nonsensical the longer he speaks.

However, Droog insists the atmosphere is wonderful, the booze is cheap, and the barkeep doesn't ask questions. So, Slick can only take so much pestering before he gives in. 

Sure enough, the place is far too ritzy for his taste. So much so, that he feels a touch nauseous at the state of it. However, he made the effort to get here. Not only that, he knew Deuce wouldn't waste the gas to drive him all the way home and then all the way back, and as sour as he was, Slick was in no mood to walk. Sure, he could hail a cab, he supposed, but, then he'd have to deal with _small talk_. So, much to his chagrin, he was stuck. 

His compatriots take their seats at the bar while he gawks at the fixtures, with nothing but malice. Chandeliers everywhere, like rats, he muses. A waste of god damn money, pointless pageantry, fucking _ugly_ , the list went on. The patrons didn't exactly help his sour mood, every single on of them dressed to the nines, every dame in the damn place sporting whatever sparkly thing the papers raged about that month. A seemingly permanent scowl marred his upper lip, and he could practically hear his long dead mother chide him about his face sticking that way at every passing glare from a stranger across the room. 

"Slick, c'mon, while there's still empty stools!"

He groans, looking towards the irritating noise. 

The bar is just as garish. A high shelf, lit with multi-colored bulbs and stocked with such a disgusting amount of liquor that even he swore he could blush. Polished stone counter top... he rolls his eyes at the surely real gold accents. 

And then there's you. 

You'd been thrilled to see your favorite regulars approach the bar, greeting each one by the affectionate nickname you'd given them months ago, and they all smile and turn, the largest of the group asking how you've been. He always was the kind one.

"Oh, just fine, _honey_." You answer, pulling a glass from under the bar and making quick work of his drink. White russians weren't exactly complicated, after all. "How about you boys?"

"Same as ever!" The shortest beams, arms crossed to support himself as he leans on the bar. "We finally got the bossman to come along! If he ever wants to sit down."

"Oh, yeah?" You quirk a brow, having heard a decent amount about this guy from all three of the men. A hard-ass to be sure, but you were trying to reserve judgement for actually meeting the man. "How'd you manage that, _cupcake_?"

As you start measuring out the most expensive drink of the bunch, it's soon to be owner smiles.

"I pestered him relentlessly." Droog pipes in, and you can't help but snicker. 

"Should have known..." You don't look up from your work, and as a result, don't see Slick taking his seat on the far side of the four men, next to Deuce, as always. God forbid he looks short, after all. "By the way! How did your little girl's recital go, _dimples_?"

"Just beautifully," A gentle smile spreads on Droog's features. "All those extra lessons with me did wonders."

"I told you!" You laugh, pulling a martini glass from under the counter and making a show of pouring. "A little time with her pop was all she needed."

The shaker is emptied, an olive skewered, and the glass slid to the far side of the four men. Slick says nothing, just watches. 

Finally, you notice him, and quirk a brow. Well, he certainly looks the part, you'll give him that. Not that he was bad looking, of course. No, actually.. he was very handsome. In a 'mangled mutt' kind of way. 

"This must be the chief you boys keep telling me about!" You lean on one hip, taking the rag from your pocket and wiping your hands. "Sorry these guys drug you all the way here, I know this place is kind of a pain."

"No kiddin'." He avoids looking you in the eyes, and you're thankful for it. The gruff tone of voice catches you a bit off guard, and you almost don't hear his order. "Jack n' coke." 

"Oh, uh, gotcha."

Slick feels a disappointed gaze on him, immediately. Of course he does. He can feel Deuce's beady little eyes from a mile a-goddamn-way. He shoots a glare back at the offending little prick, and Deuce says nothing. Couldn't be that important.

You make quick work of his drink, and slide it to him with as warm a smile as you can muster.

"Here you go, _sugar_."

You curse the word the second it leaves your mouth, but no consequences come.

He says nothing, takes a swig, and sits in silence while conversation continues around him.

Droog talks to you more about his daughter, beaming with pride about his beautiful little girl. He tells you how beautifully she plays with him, how music fills their house and how much closer it's brought them. You encourage his gushing, absolutely adoring every second of it. 

Boxcars talks about the dame who sings every friday night with genuine affection in his voice. He talks about how her voice makes him feel, about how his hairs stand on end the moment she lets out a single note, about how every second their eyes meet feels like an eternity. You, as always, laugh and pester him to just talk to her. You suggest sending her flowers, and a flush comes across his cheeks.

Deuce talks about the chemical side of his work as a demolitions expert. You understand nothing, but you nod and encourage him. He cares about this, so you do too.

All three of them seem to feel welcome and comfortable, so, you consider your job done well. Slick says nothing, simply nursing his drink. You steal glances at him when you can, trying to place his expression.

Slick feels the gaze. He can't place the feeling behind it, so, he says nothing. 

The night is uneventful, for a while. Hours pass, and the crew move to a table, drinks still in hand. You serve people as they come, talk as much as you feel is necessary, and do your job damn well. 

Once the house lights go down, you give a sigh of relief, for it's break time during the performance, at last. You untie your apron and loosen your tie, quietly making your way to the nearest exit. 

The moment cool night air hits your skin, you pull a nearly depleted pack of smokes from your pocket, along with your dinged up lighter, and spark it. Your first drag takes all the stress of your shoulders, and you lean against the cold brick of the building with a sigh. This was the third last pack this month, you mused, shoving it back into your pocket. Not like it matters.

You enjoy the silence for about half of your cigarette, until the door opens, and Slick mutters to himself as he makes his way through it. He doesn't notice you, and you know he doesn't, from the way he continues grumbling to himself. Something about Boxcars and his 'god damn googoo eyes'. He reaches for his coat pocket, and with it, the sweet relief of nicotine. Except.. it's empty. An image of the banged up pack and lighter sitting on his kitchen counter flash through his mind, and he clicks his tongue.

"Shit."

"Forget your pack?"

He jumps, hissing a "shit!", and reaches for the butterfly knife in his front pocket. He expects to see curly red hair, freckles, and awful garish green. Instead, he finds you, quirking a brow at him.

"Fuck's sake," Slick sighs, "Don't you know not to fuckin' startle people?"

"Sorry." You chuckle, taking another drag. "You can bum one, if ya like."

He regards you, eyes narrowing as he looks him up and down. His stare feels.. analytical. Unsure, like a cornered dog. You exhale, amused at how defensive he seems.

"Not menthol, are they?"

"Christ, do I look like an animal?" You laugh, pulling your pack from your back pocket, "No, of course not," and pulling a single cigarette out. 

Slick hums. He hesitates for almost too long, and for a moment you consider putting everything away and resigning to him rejecting your kindness. Naturally, you tense when he suddenly snatches the smoke from between your fingers, and placing it between his lips with a huff.

"Got a light?"

You click your tongue, silently noting how absolutely hopeless this guys is. Nonetheless, you take out your lighter, sparking the flame to life. Slick curses the way he tenses when your hand comes close to his face. He notes the scent of what he assumes is lotion, a floral and sweet scent, and he curses himself for that too.

"Thanks." He mutters.

"Don't mention it, _sugar_."

You're silent for a moment, both taking drags and stealing glances. It's awkward, and you hate it, but then remember your job is primarily being personable to drunkards, and you are perfectly capable of dealing with the situation.

"You, uh," You ash your cigarette, "not a fan of our headliner, I take it?"

The grizzled man scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"Not a fan of how Boxcars suddenly forgets who the hell he is when she's on stage. It's god damn embarrassing, we have a reputation to uphold, for Christ's sake."

You hum, and consider telling him you think it's sweet, but think better of it. 

"So, do you have a name?"

"You aint gonna fuckin' use it, I know that much about you."

You can't help it, and chortle. The boys have told him about you, it seems. You think about this, and wonder how much they've said about you. You think about how they seemed insistent he come. You think about how disappointed Deuce seemed when Slick didn't seem interested in addressing you. When the thought of how often Boxcars loves playing cupid crosses your mind, and how he had asked about your type earlier this month, you stop this train of thought dead in it's tracks, and your laughter morphs into nervous chuckling.

"Just.. making conversation. Kinda my job. Cut me off if you wanna be let be."

"Slick."

You look at him, surprised. He takes a slow drag from the smoke you gave him, and his eyes flicker in your direction. He's making a show of the dramatics, and a smile tugs at your lips. Whether he meant to or not, you considered the tension cut.

"Spades, I assume?" You knew as much, anyone would be able to connect the dots, but you humor him. "Following that fun little scheme?"

Slick hums in response.

"So, Slick, and that is the last time I'll call you that," You grin, and he can't hide the smile tugging at his lips, "any reason you used the very clearly marked employee only exit?"

His brows flick upwards, lips pursing for a moment. 

"Figured no one'd bother me."

"And am I?"

"If you were, I wouldn't be talkin, now, would I?"

You admit that's sound logic and shrug, trying very hard not to let it show how happy you are to hear that. You always felt a weird sense of pride when you got hard-asses like this guy to open up and talk, maybe even smile and laugh. The conversation dies for a time, and you're okay with that, as it gives you time to steal glances and think on what you find with each one. His hair is mostly hidden by the hat shadowing most of his face, but you notice greying temples peaking out from under it. His crow's feet are deep, and bags under his eyes deep set not from age, but what you assume wasn't a kind life. Stubble scatters across his cheek, and you briefly wonder how it might feel against you skin.

"Yours?"

You can't help but tense, suddenly pulled from your thoughts, and greet him with a confused look. 

"Your name."

Oh. Right.

You answer him, and he hums again, running the thumb along the filter of the cigarette. He doesn't turn his head to look at you, and you can't place his intention. There's no malice, not necessarily. Was he sizing you up? Trying to get a read on you, what you wanted? You've only spoken a handful of words to this man, and he's already frustrating. 

"Try not to wear it out." You finally say, forcing a smile.

"Can't promise that." A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, and you yipe.

"What.. the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?"

Among all the traits that catch you off guard, his laugh is the most jarring thus far. It's sudden, strained from decades of avid smoking, and genuine. It's warm, and you know you'd be okay hearing it every day for the rest of your awful life. 

"I'm joshing, doll. Calm down."

"No, _No_ ," You laugh, brows knit together. "You can't just say shit like that and not explain-"

"Not to be presumptuous, kid, but I don't see you doin' anything to stop me."

You sputter, not having the words to voice your frustration. So now he decides to actually talk and try to--- ugh! You turn to take a drag to avoid having to dignify him with a response. The universe decides you get no such out, as you're down to the filter. Muttering to yourself, you flick it to the ground and smash it under your heel. Slick gives a satisfied chuckle, and you make a mental note to grill Boxcars later.

"Break time over?" 

You huff, unable to subdue the pout on your lips as you fix your tie.

"She's almost done on stage. Folks'll be at lining at the bar soon enough." 

Slick shrugs, almost done for smoke hanging from his bottom lip, and you find yourself jealous of it. 

You turn to leave, but your hand lingers on the door handle. 

"Have a good night, _sugar_."

"Likewise, toots."

Slick is left to finish off the cigarette in silence, the scent of smoke and flowers lingering in his nostrils, and the word 'sugar' repeating in his head all night. 


	2. Habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess this is a series now.

Like clockwork, friday rolls around, and the boys come to see you. 

You get updates on their lives, however minute. Never about their work, of course. You knew well enough about their shady nature, so you didn't pry on the vague terminology they used whenever you were listening. Every so often they'd talk about their 'equipment', usually Deuce being the one to dump all the information in his sweet little head about all the fun things that went into their 'work'. Slick nags him about spilling too much, but Deuce always insists that you don't mind. You don't argue.

You'd fallen into kind of a routine with the four men, admittedly. You knew the time they'd walk through the doors, you knew their orders, and you knew their habits. You knew Droog would linger around the bar, chatting up other customers or enjoying a cigarette by his lonesome. You knew Deuce would stick by Boxcars' side, even when the comically larger man would lean into his palms during the weekly headliner's show. 

You didn't expect it, but you fall into a routine with Slick as well. 

The house lights go down, you slink off for your precious time away from the bar, and Slick joins you a few drags into your smoke. Sometimes you talk, sometimes you don't, but you still enjoy knowing you have company for a while with no pressure.

  
It takes twice in a row for Boxcars to take notice.

  
The big lug sits down no less than half an hour after the house lights come up, a hell of a record for him. Normally, he sits by his lonesome for an hour or so, quietly stewing in the surge of feelings, and nursing his drink. 

Not that you can get to him right away anyway. You have a hell of a crowd to take care of, and flash him as close to 'I will be there as soon as I can' as you can with just a glance. You expect something sympathetic in return, accompanied with a nod. However, you receive a downright _coy_ look, with a casual wave of his admittedly huge hand. That was going to bother you the entire time, you had to admit. What the hell that was supposed to be burned in the back of your mind for the entire fifteen minutes it took to finally slide your way to his stool. 

"Sorry, honey," You sigh, rolling your shoulder, "you know how these mooks get after a show."

"Don't you worry your sweet head," He shakes his head. "I don't mind waitin', you know me."

His tone is low and sweet, but God, you hear that irritating flicker of ' _I know something you don't_ ' in it. It drives you absolutely mad, but you are determined to push it off. At least for a moment.

"So," You rub your hands together, "Usual?"

"If'n you please."

"Anything for you, honey."

You steal glances at him even as you pull out the admittedly almost depleted bottle of vodka from underneath the bar. Unlike most of the other men, Boxcars was usually fairly easy to read. Man wore his heart on his sleeve, at least around you. However, this was something you'd never seen on him before, something that absolutely drove you mad. 

You waste no time, and resign to opening this can of worms the moment you slide the glass to him.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?"

"Hm?"

Boxcars looks up from his glass, still mid-sip. His eyes plead ' _who, lil ol me?_ ', but you know better. 

"First that coy look you gave me earlier, now your tone is slipping. What are you hiding?" You place both hands on your hips, favoring leaning on your right. "You might as well just tell me now."

"Hmmm.."

He holds his glass gingerly, both hands dwarfing it, index fingers tapping the rim. 

"Well," He begins, doing an absolute dogshit job of suppressing a grin, "I just noticed you and Slick gettin' along _awful_ well is all."

There it is.

You hold back any extreme reaction, absolutely refusing to give this man the satisfaction. There's no way in hell you are giving this any dignity.

"If talking once a week while taking ten to smoke is getting along awful well, I hate to see how he treats folks he _doesn't_ like."

"It _is!_ "

You quirk a brow at him, and he sighs.

"Well, it aint even about how you talk. Not completely, I mean. He hates ritzy places like this, and said he'd only come here once just to get us to hush. We didn't ask him to come back, y'see? He just climbed in the cruiser with us!"

You shrug. The very large, intimidating, and baritone gentleman pouts.

"And, y'see, he's real picky about folks he's around. I don't think he really likes any of us, really, we're more employees than anything." He shakes himself before he begins rambling about hostile work environments. "He doesn't give much've anyone the time of day, is my point. But, you guys talk, and he acts real calm after you do."

"Half my job is talking to people, honey, and I'm very good at it."

You roll your eyes, but he isn't having it. Boxcars shakes his head dismissively, admittedly looking very frustrated with you not getting it. Bless his heart, he's trying, but you aren't buying it.

"I'm just sayin. Give it some thought."

"Honey," You give him a sympathetic look, "you try talking to the gal you've been pining over for the past three months. Then try setting others up."

Boxcars' eyebrows knit together, and he huffs. 

The third time in a row, Droog notices.

He's the first one to sit at the bar after the house lights come on, catching you right as you're fixing your tie. You're thankful that you don't have a crowd to deal with, as always being the only bartender working that night, but you can't help but raise a brow at his presence. Normally, this time of night, Droog has someone on his arm and is sealing the deal. However, here he is, sat right in front of you.  
You give him a sympathetic smile, completely misunderstanding. 

"No luck tonight, dimples?"

"I didn't make many attempts," He admits, hands folded politely. "I was a touch distracted."

"Yeah? Something going on with the boys?"

You figure, maybe it's something with an upcoming job? Maybe that fifth drink went to Boxcars' head? Did Deuce get into one of their drinks and need to be looked after? You knew he was the designated driver for a reason, after all. Possibilities were endless with these fools, and better than anything the theater had to offer.

Droog seems to think for a moment, looking you over as you shake together his drink for him. As usual, reading him is impossible.

"I'm surprised," He begins, "At how quickly you've formed a routine with Slick, I suppose."

Ugh, not him too.

You shoot Droog a glare that surely would cut a lesser man down, handing him his drink and hoping the malice is felt. Whether it is or not, he continues.

"It took you... I believe a month or two to become truly comfortable with talking to me in a more casual way. The same time frame for Deuce and Boxcars, I assume, yes?"

You nod.

"And yet, not even a calendar month goes by," He makes a point to make eye contact, "and you're slinking away with Slick once a week for privacy without hesitation."

You sputter, and Droog takes a long sip of his garishly overpriced martini. 

He says nothing else on the subject. 

Thanks to these two men and their awful, awful comments, with their smug faces and knowing glances from across the lounge, you cannot get the thought out of your mind. No matter how hard you attempt to shake it, you can't help but think of Slick in this incredibly frustrating way. You can't help but over-analyze every stolen glance you catch the last second of, every sarcastic remark that could be flirting but who knows, every quirk of his brow, every time he tenses when you do something seemingly innocuous. Everything you wouldn't think more of if it came from anyone else, suddenly means something, if he does it.

You hate every second of this.

It takes four times for you to hold the door for him, waiting patiently and denying yourself those first few puffs in solitude.

When Slick sees this, he puts a hand over his heart, brows raised in faux surprise and a disgustingly smug grin on his face. 

"Well, be still my beatin' heart. Aint you polite?"

He walks past you and into the cold, and you meet him with a chuckle as you shut the door behind him.

"I'm always a perfect picture of manners, sugar."

"See, I beg to-"

"When in polite company."

Slick sputters, a grin still straining against his laugh lines. He doesn't dignify you any further, so you enjoy your tiny victory for now. Pulling your fifth 'last pack' from your coat pocket, along with your trusty lighter, you try not to think too much on the tinge of pink on his cheeks. A few drags into your own smoke, you notice his increased frustration. He's patting his pockets, a frustrated look straining against his features, marked by a snarl on his upper lip, exposing a bit of his gums. 

"Need to bum one?"

For a moment, he looks unsure of whether or not he wants to admit it. Hands shoved into his coat pockets, he mutters something you can't quite make out. Obscenities of some kind, you're sure, and don't give it much more thought. He visibly swallows, _his pride_ , you muse, and nods.

You roll your eyes, pulling the smoke from your lips.

"You're absolutely god damn hopeless, you know that?" You chuckle, and offer it to him. "Just take mine. I need to cut down anyway."

Slick regards it with an expression you're both frustrated and delighted with. He seems.. flustered, almost. He never has any qualms with bumming a smoke, so it can't be that. You catch him staring at the filter, for even the briefest moment, and his eyebrows twitch. His hesitation doesn't last, of course, and he takes it with a small 'thanks'. He thinks of your lips on the filter as he inhales.

You think nothing of it, content to sit in silence during your break.

When you return to the bar, you half expect Deuce to come harass you. He doesn't, but whether it's due to his hands being currently occupied on the waists of two of tonight's dancers, you prefer not to think on.

Hours pass, and you go through the motions of the end of the night. Last call is announced, last drinks are made, taxis are called for the drunkards who can't stand, and eventually, your co-workers regard you one by one as they leave. The headliner wishes you safe travels home, the wait staff give you curt nods or waves, the kitchen staff tell you to take it easy. You're left alone by 4 am to finish up inventory and cash management.

Until you hear a single key of the house piano echo through the empty lounge, and are no longer alone.

You glance up from the register, thinking perhaps it's the stage manager, come to check the equipment. Or, maybe, you're being robbed, and this is the last breath you'll ever take.

Slick meets your gaze with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, standing over the piano with one hand shoved in his coat pocket. Your eyes roll, and your attention returns to counting the unholy amount of singles. You almost preferred the robbery option.

"We closed almost an hour ago, sugar."

"You also need to get a better lock on the backdoor, but hey," He throws his hands up dismissively, "not my business, huh?"

You shove the singles back in the drawer, writing down a '73' on your count sheet, and pick up the pile of fives. You ignore him, quietly continuing your work, and for a moment, it seems to work, for a while. You get all the way to the 10's before you hear him take a seat, and begin playing.

You never took him for the musical type, you'll give him that. He's not pulling it out of his ass, at least, not that you can tell. No protest is made, and you let the music fill your ears as you continue your work. He plays tirelessly, only pausing to mutter to himself about what other songs he knows that are just fine with him alone, surely thinking you can't hear. You can.

You finish counting, update tabs and who's due for payment soon, give the bar one last wipe down, and admire your work for a moment. Another fine close, and you're done before 6. You only give yourself a few moments to throw your coat on and gather your things, before making your way a touch too quickly to the stage. You could just yell at him to get down and leave, and you know that, but you don't. Instead, you sit beside him and watch him continue to play. He doesn't look at you, just lets a small smile tug at the corner of his lips as he feels you sit next to him.

You find yourself staring at his hands. You study the way his fingers move across the keys, instinctive, almost, you muse. His fingers are slender and worn from years of god knows what, but still move so effortlessly, so damn gracefully, with every note. You note the scars marring the top of his hands, and your mind wanders. Images of this grizzled old man, half plastered, playing the knife game to impress his companions and winding up with a butterfly knife lodged between his third and fourth knuckle flash through your mind, and you snicker to yourself. Slick gives you an accusing look, hands not stuttering with the task at hand.

"Somethin' funny, kid?"

"No, no, just.." You shrug. "Thinking."

He hums, his playing slowing dying off. At first, he says nothing as he stands from the bench. You mirror him, fixing your coat and sighing, not feeling him looking you up and down.

"Boxcars tells me you walk home every night."

You raise a brow, pulling your gloves from your coat pocket.

"Yeah."

"At five in the morning."

"Mm-hm."

"In midnight city."

"That's right."

He clicks his tongue, picking his hat from the polished surface of the piano and placing it back atop the slicked black mass of his hair.

"Good to know. Lead the way."


	3. Like a negligee

Protests fall on deaf ears.

"While I appreciate the offer-"

"Offer implies that there's an option. There _aint_."

You give a sigh, Slick sure enough following you as you flick the last of the lights off and make your way out of the backdoor. Sure enough, the lock had been picked. You shoot him a glare and are met with his lips pursing and a shrug as you swing it open. Without needing to be ushered, he takes the lead out, and wait patiently while you lock the place up for the night.

"I'm grown, sugar."

You shoot him a pleading look. It does nothing for your case.

"Grown people get jumped all the time."

While you can't really argue with that logic, you still don't want this to be your night. You sigh and walk right past him, hoping against hope to maybe outpace him. The universe disagrees, and he keeps up, awful posture, short legs and all. You consider, for a moment, running. Sprinting the whole way home would probably shake him, you think, but.. ugh. Your feet already ache from your shift, and just thinking about putting the effort into running makes your calves burn.

"Sugar," You sigh, averting your eyes, "Really, I can handle myself."

"I can handle you better, that I can promise."

You stop dead in your tracks and snap your neck to stare at him, eyebrows as high up as they'll go on your forehead. Even he looks a touch surprised at himself, but you know he won't admit it. He just shakes his head a touch, blinking rapidly and sighing.

"Look," He pulls a gloved hand from his pocket, pointing it to you, "that aside,"

" _What_ aside?"

" _Regardless_ ," There's an edge to his voice, and you can't fight a smile. "It aint right. Sweet little thing like you, walking alone this time of night."

An incredulous look spreads across your features, and your arms cross.

" _Sweet?_ "

"Even if you did live in the better part of the city, you gotta walk through this shit to get home,"

" ** _Little?_** "

"Christ, will you just-" Slick pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering for a moment why the hell he's bothering, "Look, kid. I'm trying to do somethin' nice here."

He gives you an almost pleading look, and you can't help but feel a tinge of guilt. It's not that you particularly mind him walking you home, really the idea makes you feel safer than you'd ever admit. However, the way he was acting.. it only added fuel to the fire that the much taller men had so carelessly started. Yes, they started this, not you, and you would continue to tell yourself that for as long as was necessary. Regarding him with a sympathetic look, you sigh. Glass crunches under your foot as you grind your heel into the pavement.

".. Swear it's not a bother?"

He rolls his eyes, tension rolling off his shoulders with your answer. He seems to buy that your anxiety rooting from being a bother, and you're thankful.

"Fuck's sake, kid, if it was I wouldda left with Droog after last call." His brows knit together. "I broke into the joint and offered of my own volition, you call that a goddamn burden?"

".. I guess not."

"You guess correctly. C'mon, let's get a move on, huh?"

He gestures for you to take the lead once more, and you do. Luckily, your building is mostly a straight shot from the lounge, so it doesn't take much directing, and you're free to talk. You ask about his life, and he almost shrugs it off entirely. He resigns to giving you crumbs of his life, in the form of quick facts. He tells you that he moved to the city about five years ago, and it's the only place that's ever felt close to home. His eyes never leave the cityscape around him as he speaks, seemingly fixated on the flickering lights and unkempt buildings dwarfing the two of you. He tells you about how he met the crew, and although brief, every word delights you. He tells you about their recent rise as a 'family', and how their protection keeps places like the lounge safe.

Slick grows bored with talking about himself, and instead, asks about you. Despite protests that your story isn't too interesting, you give. You gab about moving to the city right out of your folks' place, and struggling for so long to get on your feet. You talk about learning to bar-tend, and having to come out of your shell to get your admittedly shitty first job in a hole in the wall bar down on 4th. You talk about your family, for a time, and eventually grow tired of thinking back on them.

"What about you? Got any blood connections left?"

"Ma' died about thirteen years back. Pop short after. No siblings, never really knew the extended clan, never felt the need to."

"Any kids?"

He sputters.

"What.." He looks you up and down, an almost offended look in his strained features, ".. the _hell_ makes you think that?"

You shrug, hands buried in your pockets.

"I dunno, guess it just made sense in my head? Droog's got his little girl, Deuce has the twins, and Boxcars has a little boy, right? So..."

"No." Slick is stern, more so than someone denying having children should be. "Jesus, _No_. I aint gonna bore you with the details, but... No." 

You stare at his face, far longer than you should. It's twisted in a strange mix of disgust, regret... and you swear you can see the ghost of something sad in his eye. You want to pry, more than anything, but you think better of it. He was already going out of his way to show you some kindness, after all.

"It wouldn't be a bore," You settle on, "but I understand."

He seems satisfied, and you walk together in silence.

You make it about two blocks from your building before the snow picks up, the winds following shortly after.

Slick walks you all the way up to your door, and you hesitate. Key still in the lock, you turn to give him a pained look. His face is a touch red from the cold, bits of snow not yet melted clinging to his clothing and hair, and of course, he isn't looking at you. His gaze is fixed down the hallway, seeming to scan the area for god knows what. Stragglers? Someone following the two of you? You weren't going to pretend to know. 

"Thanks." You finally force, unlocking and placing a hand on the doorknob. 

"Hm?" He finally turns to look at you, pulled from god knows what occupying his mind. ".. Ah. Think nothin' of it."

"No, I.. I really appreciate it."

You chew your bottom lip for a moment, mulling over the question you want to ask him. It could result in one of two things, the way you see it. He could shoot down the other mens' theories, and your own at this point, and you could go about your life without the complications these unwanted feelings had thrust upon you. Or, and this was so very unlikely, you tell yourself, it could confirm them. He could ruin everything by making it known that, yes, everything had been on purpose, and had been his awful and inefficient way of flirting.

Fuck it. 

"Do you, uh," You can't look at him. "want to.. come inside? It's picking up out there, and, some tea or coffee would be the least I could do to thank you."

You stare at the stained carpet of your building's hallway, white knuckling your front door as you wait, and you don't see his reaction. You don't see his features soften. You don't see his lips part, just a little. You don't see the tension roll of his shoulders, and you certainly don't see his eyes studying you and lingering on your legs for _far_ too long.

"Well, I aint one to turn down free coffee."

You let go of the breath you had been holding, and you're not sure if you're relieved or disappointed.

You tell him to make himself at home, leaving the door open for him and tossing your keys onto the couch. Both of your coats and his hat are placed gingerly on the hand-me-down rack settled by the doorway, and you make your way to the kitchen as Slick takes in your living room. Not too messy, not too clean, he notes. 

You try not to pay him much mind, making as quick of work as you could of getting some coffee ready. Every step of the way, you steal glances at him. One moment he's taking in the entrance, the next he's gawking at the pictures on your wall. You look away to measure the grounds, and when you turn your attention to him for a moment, he's looking through the photos on your shelf. There's no ulterior motive, at least not that you can place. He's not smug, or coy, he just looks.. curious. A small smile graces your lips.

"You take milk or sugar?" You feel like you know the answer already, but, it's polite to ask. 

"No."

The answer comes quickly, and you roll your eyes as you pour him a cup. Should have guessed a fella that grizzled would sacrifice flavor for his pride. Although, with how much his voice betrayed decades of smoking, you doubt he could taste much of anything at this point anyway. 

"Nice place ya got." He calls out, and you catch him running a feather light touch along the wall as you bring it to him.

You thank him, and he thanks you as he takes the warm mug in his hands.

You retreat back to the kitchen, and he follows. Your fingertips tap on the kitchen counter, trying not to think about how you can feel his eyes on you. How you can feel him searching for something, like he has been all night. You hear him set the mug on the counter, and you let out a frustrated sigh.

Second plunge of the night.

"So, your boys seem to have an.. interesting idea about you."

He looks up, and you feel him inch closer to you from across the kitchen. He thinks he's subtle, but you're painfully aware of what he's doing. Regardless, you try not to react.

"Mmh?"

"Boxcars in particular seems to have it in his sweet little head that you, uh.." You suddenly find the linoleum floor of your kitchen very interesting. "got a little crush on me."

You feel the ghost of a touch against your hand, and you don't pull away.

"Is that right?"

"Mmmh." You swallow the lump forming in the back of your throat, "Silly, right?"

Slick looks you up and down for a moment, before clicking his tongue and giving a small chuckle.

"So, let me get this straight." He's not hiding his advances towards you anymore, taking steps with purpose. "And correct me if I'm wrong here. He's been fillin' your head with the idea that I'm holding a candle for you, for, I'll take a stab in the dark here, a week or two? That sound about right?"

You open your mouth to answer, but he doesn't let you.

"And this in your head, clearly, since you're bringing it up without a single prompt," He takes another step towards you, "you decide to all but ask me if it's true. Now, you could do this at the lounge, sure. During our little talks, maybe. Or after hours, or maybe even the solid mile and a half it takes to get here. Instead, you invite me in your apartment."

"Wh-" You let out a shaking laugh, finally looking up at him and meeting his gaze. He looks awfully pleased. " _Hang on_ -"

"Now, I'm doin' my best to be a gentleman here, dollface. Really, I am, but," Slick takes one last step towards you, and places on hand firmly against the kitchen counter and effectively cornering you against it. You smell whiskey on his breath and aftershave on his cheeks, and feel the heat radiating off of him. "how about you tell _me_ what I'm supposed to think about all of that."

The trend of you not being able to suppress how your lips curl into a smile around him continues. 

"What _do_ you think?"

You chew your lower lip, and a corner of his mouth curls into a smirk. 

" _I_ think," He leans in, nice and close. You feel his breath on your lips, and you can practically hear your heart beating against your rib cage. "that you and I both know that coffee is gonna go cold."

You swallow.

"You're enjoying this."

"No," One hand withdraws from it's iron grip on the counter, and finds it's way to push you by your waist flush against him. "but i'm about to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=98Xju_5mepA


End file.
